Eclipsed
by The-Unknown-Artist
Summary: After an accident John is left permanently blind. It isn't long before he begins to lose himself in the darkness. It's up to Sherlock to find him again. Established Relationship. Eventual smut. Eventual gore. Then the rating will rise.
1. Safety

**Eclipsed**

_'After an accident John is left permanently blind. _

_It isn't long before he begins to lose himself in the darkness._

_It's up to Sherlock to find him again.'_

* * *

**First Chapter: Saftey**

* * *

It was in August when Sherlock bought half a dozen white mice.

"They make excellent lab partners." He had said. "Humans and mice share about 99 percent of genes. That's exceptionally better than tadpoles."

John had made some kind of point that he was absolutely_ not_ going to be feeding and cleaning up after a 6 mice whenever the detective had a sulking episode. He had made it clear that they were Sherlock's responsibility.

To which the other man responded with:

"Oh come off it John, I've already potty trained them."

It was a few days after Sherlock had obtained the mice that John had found him cursing and grumbling about one of them being "incompetent".

"What do you mean? It's just like the others." John said, holding the mice at fault. It looked just like the others after all. White coat with pink feet and tail and shiny black eyes. John stroked the little creature's neck while it tilted it's head up, curiously sniffing the air. It didn't seem to have any obvious ineptitude.

"No no, John don't you see? With it's disability it will never qualify for half of the experiments I'm planning. It just won't _do_!"

"What's wrong with it Sherlock? It looks fine to me."

"That's because you're not looking hard enough. That one is _blind_."

John raised his eyebrows and looked back down at the mouse. Now that he looks closer, the eyes are significantly darker than the other mice. A dark black abyss with no hope or trace of light. The mouse continued to sniff the air, it's head turning towards the sound of voices but never once looking directly at the doctor.

It was indeed blind.

"I'll just have to dispose of it." Sherlock had muttered, reaching towards the mouse in Johns palm.

Immediately John pulled back in fear, cradling the mouse to his chest like it was his own daughter.

"No! You don't have to kill it."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to raise and eyebrow. "If my memory is correct, which it is 86% of the time, it was you that didn't want anything to do with these animals in the first place. Why the sudden compassion?"

Come to think of it, John actually didn't know why he cared to save the blind mouse. It was, after all, just an animal. Perhaps it was his doctorly instincts to save whatever living being he could. Perhaps it was just his kind heart that couldn't bare seeing a creature killed because of something that wasn't its fault. Perhaps he found himself relating to it.

What ever the reason be, John felt a certain connection to the mouse. It was sad and broken just like he was all those months ago. John was 'saved' by Sherlock, why can't John save this creature?

"I want to keep it." He finally announced. He noticed that his tone of voice and the true detail of the situations made him sound like a complete child! But he kept his face serious and held the mouse close.

Sherlock gave him a questioning look but eventually just sighed.

"Whatever you say John, but this one _you_ have to take care of."

He made a satisfied smirk like that of a stubborn 7 year old who had just gotten his way.

He gently patted the mouse on the head and watched as it relaxed in his hand. Strange how it can feel comfortable with a presence that it can't even see.

"What is its name?" John asked. He knew Sherlock had dubbed all of the mice with rather unusual names the day before.

"Her name is Algernon."

* * *

It was in September that Sherlock accepted a case where several untraceable explosions were going off in seemingly random locations.

The first in a park.

The second in a residential neighborhood.

The third at a elementary school.

Sherlock had only accepted the case after the third explosion at the elementary school.

It was the only incident where someone was harmed by the bomb.

"These bombs were designed solely for acts of arson, their only purpose is to induce fear." Sherlock had said. "Each bomb is strategically placed somewhere with a lot of civilians, a lot of potential victims. However, once they go off, no one is harmed. There are always dozens of witnesses though. Dozens of frightened and panicked witnesses who begin to question their own protection. _That_ is what the unsub is doing. He is making a statement that no one is safe by causing unexplainable chaos.

But, something went wrong didn't it?

He placed the bomb in Mrs. Kinnian's classroom and scheduled it to blow in the one and only period that there was no class in that room. Little did he know that 9 year old Charlotte was asked to deliver a borrowed stapler to Mrs. Kinnian during that same period.

He is very specific on where he places the bombs and what time he activates them, but despite his carefulness, someone died.

He made a mistake and now he is left to do one of two things.

He may kill himself...or he may get a taste for bloodlust.

You may have a budding serial killer on your hands Lestrade. A serial killer who uses fire and bombs as a signature weapon. _That_ is why I am accepting this case."

Lestrade just stared, speechless.

He had only asked 'Why the sudden interest? I thought you said this one was dull?'

"Uh, yeah okay." Was all he could really respond with.

* * *

It was also in September that 'the accident' occurred.

Sherlock doesn't like calling it 'the accident' because really, it wasn't an accident. The bomb was as intended as all of the rest of them were. Only this one was designed to harm. The unsub wasn't just scaring people anymore. He wanted to hurt people.

He wanted to hurt _John._

And therefore, calling it an accident was stupid because it simply wasn't.

* * *

They had been running, because they were always running. Never running away, always running towards the voice of danger. They were adrenalin addicts after all. They lived for this. This is what saved John.

Well, this and Sherlock.

Speaking of the man, he was shouting something.

"Keep up John, I don't want you falling behind."

The doctor didn't bother responding. He needed every breath he could get in order to follow Sherlock's order anyway.

The man was getting away. The boys hadn't pinned a name on him yet, but they knew just about everything else about him.

Well, Sherlock did.

They were racing through alleys, trying to keep up with this, stunningly agile, explosives expert. Sherlock had mentioned something about him being a chemist, or maybe it was a physicist. Some kind of doctor. The man threw a trash can to the ground, creating an obstetrical that Sherlock quickly leaped over. Seriously, he was like a bloody antelope! John had a bit more trouble maneuvering over the can.

Once he had gotten over it, Sherlock and the man had long disappeared from his sight.

"Sherlock!...Wait up!" He shouted, taking in deep breaths. He was hunched over with his hands on his knees and tried to desperately to catch his breath. He really wasn't as in shape as he thought himself to be.

He might as well leave Sherlock to catch the bastard on his own. John leaned against the alley's wall and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

He checked his wrist watch.

4:32

It had been a long night.

And it was about to get even longer.

Once his heart had stopped beating in his ears he noticed a soft ticking noise in the background.

Ticking, why did he hear ticking-?

John's eyes widened in realization and he turned to the trash bin.

_tick, tick,_

_tick, tick,_

"Oh shi-"

* * *

Several hundred meters away, Sherlock had pinned the unsub down on the pavement, his hand behind his back.

He was getting increasingly frustrated with this one. He wouldn't stop mumbling nonsense into the night's air.

His voice would rise and drop dramatically, similar to that of Moriarty's except much less deep. His hair was short, strawberry blond with large bald patches missing. The tips of his hair were cut short at different lengths, not done with a razor, it was pulled. Trichotillomania.

His skin was very pale. No tan lines, he rarely is outside for an extended period of time. He examined his hands. Red and raw, scrubbed until the skin broke. Possibly a result of obsessive compulsive disorder.

More mumbling, was that a stutter?

"Really, if you're going to disregard your right to remain silent, then at least speak louder so I may hear you."

He cracked a manic grin."You think you're safe now dont-don't you? You're never safe. We're all doomed, all the tim-time! Just loose your focus for one second and BOOM! You're life's been dest-dest-destroyed."

Repetition stutter confirmed.

Not a nervous tic, not developmental, recently acquired.

Possibly result of a head injury. Possibly a brain tumor. Could be fatal.

That would explain why he decided to go on a killing spree.

Nothing left to loose.

Sherlock just grinned back, almost amused by this one's stupidity. He could have just learned this man's reason for killing just by his talking.

"You think you're teaching them something then? Showing them that safety is as much as a lie as peace or innocence. Allow me to enlighten you then, they know. They know they're doomed. They just choose not to see it. Ignorance over fear I suppose." He reached into his coat pocket to retrieve Anderson's stolen handcuffs.

The man shrugged, then pressed his face back to the pavment. "So I guess you_ "chose"_ to kill you're friend, huh?"

"..What?"

That's about when he heard the explosion.

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat, his whole body froze in shock.

"John."

.

.

.

"_**JOHN!**"_

He took off in a full on sprint, forgetting completely about the unsub, who found this to be a perfect time to escape.

"Allow this to be a reminder Mr. Holmes," He called. "That-that you and your loved ones are never tru-truly safe! There is no sanct-sanctuary for you!"

Sherlock didn't even hear his words as he raced to the sound of the explosion.


	2. Accident

_A/N: Because I have never been to London, the street names will be completely fictional. Reviews are very much appreciated. Next chapter will be released in a week._

* * *

**Second Chapter: Accident**

* * *

It felt like some kind of dream, some bizarre cruel nightmarish dream. Embers floated in the air before him, like little stars that have fallen all the way from the heavens to rest with John. There were scraps of newspaper burning on the ground along with shards of broken glass

The air was dramatically warmer now then it was before. It gave off a sort of unsettling buzz, as if it was unclear if this were reality or a delusion.

Then there was John.

Several feet away and lying on his side. There was blood.

"John!" His own voice seemed warped and far away. Sherlock found his feet running towards his partner, but the more he ran the farther away John's body seemed to be. Very surreal indeed. When he finally did reach John he took him in his arms and turned him to his side.

Tiny pieced of glass were stuck in his shoulder, arm, and side. Blood dripped from the left side of his body. The blast must have thrown him at least 5 feet. He landed on his fore left arm, it was probably broken. Ash, dirt, burns, and blood colored his face in a way that made his almost unrecognizable. Almost. Sherlock supported his neck checked for signs of hope.

Unconscious. Check pulse.

Alive.

Check breathing.

Not.

**Step 1 of CPR**: Attempt to wake the victim.

"John! John! Can you hear me?"

He began rubbing his knuckles roughly over John's sternum, a typical exercise used to test if the patient is responsive to pain stimulus.

No response.

Dammit.

**Step 2 of CPR**: Begin chest compression.

Sherlock whipped out his cell and quickly dialed 911. He held the phone between his shoulder and head while me moved so he was straddling John's waist. Then he began pumping his chest.

A young woman answered his call. "911, what is your emergen-"

"I am in the west alley way across from Gordin Street. A bomb went off approximately 3 minutes ago and my partner, Doctor Watson, is injured. He is not breathing nor responding to painful and verbal stimuli. Send help immediately."

"An ambulance is on the way. What is your name sir? Are you injured?" She said.

"Sherlock Holmes. No, I am not harmed. I was not here when the bomb went off."

The words stung his lips. _He wasn't there._

"And are you trained in CPR?"

"I do not have a licenses but I know how to preform CPR, yes."

30 chest compressions complete.

Begin rescue breathing.

Sherlock tilted John's chin up, like how he would do when he kissed him. But these lips felt wrong. They were cold and lifeless. There was no warmth returned. Would he feel that warmth again?

No, don't think about that.

Repeat chest compressions.

John is alive.

30 more times.

John will be alive.

Then rescue breath.

John is safe.

_'You and your loved one's are never truly safe.' _The words ran through his mind, still fresh and painful.

"Mr. Holmes? Is Doctor Watson still not breathing?" The woman said.

"No, I'm continuing chest compressions. Where is your ambulance?"

"On it's way sir. I assure you it will be with you soon. Remain calm."

"I _am_ calm." He replied a bit too sternly.

Of course he's calm. John will be fine. Of course he will. Any idiot with a 90 IQ level would know that.

He hadn't realized he was crying until he saw tears falling onto John's chest.

"John." It was barely over a whisper.

"Do you need anything else Mr. Holmes? Anything at all?"

_Tell me J__ohn will live._

_Save him._

"No."

Another chest compression and suddenly John's body jerked up. His eyes snapped open and his mouth sucked in a deep breath. His sharp gasps for breath were like music to Sherlock's ears.

"John! John are you okay?"

The doctor's eyes didn't focus on Sherlock just yet. Instead he seemed to be looking _through_ him._  
_

"Sh-Sherlock? Sherlock!"

"Mr. Holmes? Is Dr. Watson conscious?" The phone fell out from Sherlock's ear when he had wrapped both arms around John. He buried his face in John's chest. He tried to be careful not to disturb his injuries, but for now he just needed that warmth back.

_John_

Sherlock could now hear sirens in the distance and his body relaxed just slightly.

John kept calling out Sherlock's name, probably in shock.

"I'm right here John."

The doctor's body was still tense despite Sherlock's reassurance. He was breathing now, but something still felt very wrong.

"Mr. Holmes, the ambulance should be in your range now." He heard the 911 operator say.

Sherlock ignored her again. Releasing John from his embrace, he took a look at the doctor's face. His eyes seemed...distant.

"John?"

"Sherlock? Sherlock, I can't- I can't open my eyes." He finally spoke. "Sherlock I can't see. I can't...Sherlock?"

"I'm right here." He said. "John, your eyes are open." A confused smile played on his face. So silly of John, forgetting when his eyes were open and when they were not.

The ambulance had parked by the alleyway. Paramedics were rushing over to them.

"I can't...I can't see _you_." He put extra emphasis on the 'you', as if it was the only thing he really needed to see.

Sherlock's face paled. He didn't want to believe what he was hearing.

"It is a bit dim out. Can you see the ambulance lights?" He tried.

"I can't."

"Can you see-"

"I can't see anything. It's all dark."

The paramedics began to pull John onto the gurney but he wouldn't release his hold on the younger man's coat. Sherlock could tell John was breaking. The stoic as stone soldier began to crumble and John started to become more human by the second. He was scared and Sherlock couldn't save him. He could have sworn he heard John whisper a quiet 'no' when the paramedics had finally pulled him from the detective. John's head bowed down as if he were surrendering himself.

"It's so dark."

* * *

It wasn't until the ambulance had arrived at the ER, and the doctors rushed John into surgery, and Lestrade put a shock blanket over him, did Sherlock really loose his adrenaline high.

His body felt limp and his mind as if it were full of rocks.

Lestrade didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. Nothing would fix this.

He could go with the usual pity talk:

"Everything is going to be okay."

"Do you need me to get you anything?"

"I'm really sorry about this."

But he knew Sherlock wouldn't want that. So he just wrapped the blanket around him, gave him a solemn nod, and left him to his thoughts.

And it was enough.

Sherlock sat in one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs and didn't move or speak for 3 hours. He was vaguely aware that at some point Mycroft had arrived and sat next to him, but he paid no attention to that. He only snapped out of his daze when a doctor approached him.

John's doctor.

He had bad news.

But not the worst news.

Sherlock sucked in a breath. It was one of the few times in his life where he actually cared what an ordinary person had to say. He was sure to pay absolute attention. The doctor had his hospital mask around his neck, his scrubs were clean of blood. He saw that as a good sign.

"Hello, I am Dr. Nemmir. John's surgeon. I'm pleased to announce that John is alive and stable."

Sherlock let out a breath and closed his eyes.

Yes. John is safe. Of course he's safe. He's a strong soldier after.

"There was no terminal damage to his heart or brain, just a mild concussion. In fact, I do believe you saved his life by preforming CPR. This could have been far worse."

Worse. Meaning something bad had already happened.

Dr. Nemmir seemed to notice the look of anticipation on Sherlock's face. His smile faded and he brought a hand to his face.

"You see...The blast from the explosion damaged John's retina to a point where they became inoperable. He has no light perception at all. I'm very sorry, John is permanently blind."

Sherlock didn't say anything. His body froze still. His line of vision was still set on the Doctor, whom he was last talking to, but he didn't respond when the Doctor asked if he was 'alright?'.

He didn't respond to anything in fact.

He was busy trying to put this all together.

* * *

[Entering Mind Palace]

_~Welcome back, **Sherlock Holmes**~_

**Identify the Problem:**

**John** is blind.

**Explain further:**

In the midst of an explosion, of which I was not there to protect him, **John's **retina was damage to where he became Blind.

**Injuries:**

Breath was knocked out of him temporarily.

Shards of glass impaled him in 3 different areas

2 broken ribs

Fractured radius

Concussion

Permanent blindness

**John-**

**Career**: Part time doctor at the surgery

Part time my colleague

**Enjoys**:

Adrenaline

Adventure

Drunk snogging

Beaches

Driving

Jam on his toast

Sex

Catching 'bad guys'

Windy weather

Astronomy

My irises

My cheekbones

My deductions (when they are said at the appropriate time)

Sentiment

Danger

Me

**Does not enjoy:**

Long periods of not moving

Canes

Pity

Experiments on the kitchen table

Experiments in the bedroom

Experiments on him

Not knowing what is going on

Not being in control

Being 'weak' (whether it is mentally or physically)

**Percentage of Johns life that **Blindness** will affect:**

62.5%

**Me**

**50% of my life** = **John H. Watson**

**Percentage of my life that John's **Blindess** will affect:**

16.25%

-Cancel-

Percentage Irrelevant

Not about me

About **John**

**Possible solutions to the problem:**

**1. **Delete **John**

-Cancel-

Not an option

_X-Delete that particular thought from memory-X_

_X-DELETED-X_

**2. **Give **John** your own eyes

-Cancel-

Probably not legal/safe/possible

**3. **Let it be

**John's** disability will not change him

It will conflict with his emotions and make his life increasingly difficult

But **John** will still be **John**

Therefore your responsibilities remain the same:

_Make **John** Happy_

_Protect **John**_

_Love **John**_

The only change is the_ Protecting_ will be increased

**John **is vulnerable now

**John **can be taken away from you

**John** may not be able to protect himself and when he can't, he entire being will become your own responsibility

**Do Not Fail**

Solution _Accepted_

[Exiting Mind Palace]

* * *

Sherlock blinked once, twice, before settling on his surroundings again. Several nurses were staring at him along with the doctor from before. Dr. Nemmir was it? Yes that was it. Things were coming back to him now.

He smiled at the doctor who looked very confused and a bit scared. Sherlock frowned then.

"What's wrong?"

The doctor flinched at his voice, then coughed nervously.

"N-nothing. I thought you went into shock. You didn't speak for about 20 minutes."

"I told them it was nothing to worry about." Mycroft had said. "Just another one of your quirks." He sneered.

Damn, Sherlock had forgotten he was here.

No matter, Mycroft didn't matter right now. John. John mattered.

"May I see him? Room 14G was it?" Sherlock had asked.

Nemmir raised an eyebrow, obviously confused. "Who? Oh, John! Yes, you may see him. He is unconscious though. And Mr. Holmes, I really need to talk to you about John's care."

Sherlock was already half way down the hall. "Yes yes, all in due time Doctor."

Strange. He was sure he spoke those words to John once before.


	3. Voice

_A/N: I figured I would upload this now since I may not have any internet over the weekend. Congrats, you got this one early._

* * *

**Third Chapter: Voice**

* * *

John didn't look like John. He looked like a hospital patient and Sherlock didn't like it.

John should never be in the hospital as a patient. He was a doctor after all. He healed the ones who were hurt, he wasn't supposed to get hurt himself! There had been a few times in the past where John had to be hospitalized, a fractured wrist, a broken nose, a mild concussion. But it was never like this. There were never this many bandages and stitches and wires.

Sherlock didn't like it.

He lied in the hospital with the sheet pulled up to just bellow his chest. He wore the usual hospital gown and Sherlock couldn't help but glare at the band on his wrist. There were a few stitches on his right shoulder and arm, along with a cast on his right fore arm.

An IV fed him fluids from his left wrist, where the hospital band was. There were other bandages here and there on his head and shoulder but the most noticeable of them all was the bandage wrapped completely around his head and covering his eyes.

Like a blindfold, Sherlock noted. When Joke woke up, the first thing he would do is try to remove the bandaging on his eyes. That would not be good considering he had just gone through surgery and is probably still bleeding a bit. He must protect John from removing that blindfold once he wakes.

He will also be dreadfully sore, even with the heavy dose of pain meds he's been given.

And Sherlock would be right beside him to soothe the pain. He smiled again. Yes. This would not be difficult. He simply just had to take care of John, just like before, but work harder. He could do that. It was simple, perhaps a bit dull, but as long as he got to keep his John it would be far worth it.

Sherlock approached his sleeping partner. He sat in the chair by John's bedside. Up closer he could see the true extent of John's wounds. It would be the first time he could see them this closely in proper light. There were cuts mostly on the right side of his face, that's where he had fallen on the glass, and 1st degree burn on his left cheek. There was a concerning looking 2nd degree burn that ran from his jaw, down to his neck.

Sherlock hoped it didn't scar. John was already a bit self conscious about his shot wound. Honestly though, Sherlock found it intriguing, sexy even. But a scar on his beloved John's _face _was unacceptable. He didn't want anything disrupting John's face.

He loved that face.

He took hold on John's good hand and rubbed his thumb over his knuckles. His previous cheeky smile faltered and his eyes darkened.

John was scarred and broken and blind and he didn't stand a chance against the world. If Sherlock had worried John would taken from him before, he was absolutely terrified of it now.

He wanted to save him. He wanted to hold him so close until he morphed into his own body. Consume him. Keep him safe and locked away inside him. He wanted to hide him from the worlds ugliness and dangers. He wanted to smoother him, to own him.

His hand gripped harder onto John's. His eyes were dull and sad. He brought John's limp hand to his face and leaned into the touch. Holding John's palm over his forehead, his fingers in his hair. He silently hoped that he would feel John's hand come to life and stroke his hair. That he would hear him speak in that deliciously familiar voice.

_"God, you brilliant moron."_ He would say, a smile in his voice.

And Sherlock would let out a quiet hum and say:_ "But you love me."_

John would smile a bit wider and chuckle.

_"Yeah, I do. God help me, I do"_

Sherlock sighed and shut his tired eyes. He had never felt this spent. He was exhausted but he couldn't sleep. That was simply not an option. So he pulled John's hand away from his head and kissed his palm.

He intertwined their fingers and just watched John. He took note of every breath, every heartbeat, every sign that proved that he would wake up.

Because he would.

John would wake up and put his hand in Sherlock's hair and call him a idiot and a genius at the same time and he would wake up and he would love him. Just like before. It would be the same, just with lack of vision.

John's hand suddenly vibrated. His tremor. All was still for a moment, then-

John's head turned and he clutched Sherlock's hand in a complete death grip.

"-Ahh, John!"

His fingernails dug into Sherlock's palm and John grunted. His head was rolling and his jaw kept clenching and un-clenching. His lips would twitch into a frown, then they would part and it was like John was trying to whisper something, to shout, to _scream_ something.

And Sherlock's hand was turning red.

"N-nurse!" He called. John was having a nightmare, he was sure, but it wasn't a nightmare Sherlock had ever seen John have before.

John's nightmares would consist of the war, Sherlock, or lives in danger that he could not save. But this was different. It was like something was trying to claw through his skin from the inside out. In this dream, the victim was John.

Nurses were rushing in, trying to hold John down so they could inject a sedative.

"NO!" Sherlock didn't mean to shout, but at least he got their attention. "Do not put him to sleep. He needs to wake up. He's having a nightmare, he needs to come back."

The nurses exchanged looks, speculating if they should trust this man.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Imbeciles. He gripped firmly on John's good shoulder (or his old bad shoulder.) He didn't apply too much pressure but he was sure to have a stern hold on him. He shook him gently but firmly.

"John. You need to wake up. John!" He spoke directly into his ear.

John gasped attempted to sit up before wincing and lying back down.

"Sher...Sherlock? Sherlock?!" His body jerked frantically. He released his death grip from Sherlock's hand and recoiled from his partner. Sherlock couldn't help but feel a bit hurt at the reaction.

"John it's me. It's Sherlock. Can you understand me?"

John's breathing slowed a bit but he was still very tense. "Y-yeah, I understand. Sherlock, where-"

"I'm right here John." He held John's hand in both of his own. "Don't fret. Just relax." kissed the cheek that wasn't burned. "I'm right here with you."

John relaxed a bit more and leaned toward the voice of Sherlock. He trusted that voice.

"Sherlock...Wha- why can't I-" He reached for the blindfold.

"No no no! Don't touch the bandages. Shh." He stroked John's cheek with the tips of his fingers. Very gently, very softly.

John's head turned sharply and he almost bonked his head with Sherlock's.

"Why? Bandages? Where am I?"

"You are at St. Barts, Dr. Watson." Dr. Nemmir seemed to have appeared out of no where. Sherlock was slightly annoyed when he noticed he was there. He could take care of this. He could take care of John all by himself. He didn't need some doctor.

"Who are you?" John asked, reaching for the bandages again. Sherlock stopped him.

"I am Dr. Nemmir. I'm not sure you remember but you were injured during a bomb explosion. Now the blast damaged your retina and...Well I'm very sorry Dr. Watson. Surely you know what it's like to give bad news to patients. Your vision is permanently damaged. You are blind."

John didn't say anything for a long moment. His facial muscles were relaxed, his lips parted. It was like his brain wasn't sure what it should tell his body to do. He was just still.

Sherlock momentarily wondered if he had entered a mind palace of his own.

Then he sucked in a breath and spoke. "Alright um. Okay. Thank you Doctor." His voice sounded strained and his words were rushed.

He cleared his throat. "If you could please...Just- give me some time."

"Of course." The doctor said. Nemmir and the nurses left without another word.

John's grip tightened around Sherlock's hand. He took that as a request to stay. When Sherlock looked back at John he had his hand over his mouth. His breathing was ragged.

"John."

He just shook his head. His hand tremor returned for a moment.

"John." Sherlock repeated. He wanted to hear his voice. He didn't care if it came out as choked sobs. He needed to hear him.

"John please."

"Sherlock." He said finally, his voice broken. "Come here."

And Sherlock did. He curled onto the bed with John and wrapped his arms around him, careful not to disturb his wounds.

John reached for him, his fingers brushing against the material of Sherlock's shirt. He placed his hand on the center of his chest. Slowly, he moved his hand up, over his neck and curling around his cheek. It rested right behind Sherlock's ear.

He doesn't look at Sherlock's face, but he supposed he might have to get used to that. Still, it was like he was ashamed of his bruises and bandages. He was afraid Sherlock would reject him. Foolish John.

Sherlock shifted closer and filled the space in between them and John gasped. His hand came to rest on Sherlock's shoulder this time. He buried his face into his shirt and just breathed.

"Sh-Sherlock. Please...talk. Just keep talking." He pleaded.

The detective kissed his hair and began to speak.

"I'm with you John, I will be right here for as long as you want me. Always. John, I absolutely love you. This is going to be okay, I swear it will. You will learn to see without your eyes and it will be just the same I promise. I will be right here, okay? This will pass. You will be back with me, catching the criminals and experience such brilliant adventures in no time. It will be fantastic, just as before."

The good doctor took in every word, though he wasn't sure he could allow himself to believe it all. Yes, he knew Sherlock loved him. Yes, he knew this dreaded feeling of emptiness would pass. But...would it really be the same? He inhaled Sherlock's scent deeply. It made him grow dizzy and he felt numb. The soft beeping and breathing of the hospital machines swiftly disappeared under the sound of Sherlock's dark but soothing baritone. Yes, his voice was something he would hold on to. At least this would stay the same. John would have to depend on his other senses now. At least Sherlock would still exist there.

The detective laid kisses on John's temple and smoothed out his hair.

"It's okay, John. I'll take care of you."


	4. Eclipse

_A/N: The story really begins here._

* * *

**Fourth Chapter: Eclipse**

* * *

"Sherlock?…Sherlock!"

"Right here John." Sherlock said. "I just had to pay the cabbie." He took his hand and gave it a kiss.

John relaxed at the touch and nodded, giving Sherlock's hand a light squeeze.

He had been discharged from the hospital that morning after 3 days under close watch. The doctor had given him a bottle of pain meds and a white cane, which Sherlock packed in the trunk of the cab. John didn't want to deal with canes yet. He also gave Sherlock the number of a therapist and advice that he have John take it under consideration once he is ready. Sherlock gave Lestrade a complete description of the unsub. He shouldn't be too hard to find. There shouldn't be many obsessive compulsive, prematurely balding, stuttering explosive experts in London. Sherlock was hopeful, but something inside didn't want Lestrade to find the bomber. Sherlock wanted to have him to himself. Show him exactly what happens to men who harm his John.

"Now, there are 11 steps. Hold on to the railing. I'll be right behind you the whole time." Sherlock rested his hand on the small of John's back for support.

John nodded once again. He shuffled slowly to the bottom of the stairs until his toe hit the first step. A small gasp escaped his lips.

"That's the first step, just take the railing like this." Sherlock placed his hand on the railing.

"Yeah, thanks." John muttered.

They made it up the stairs at a very slow pace but made it to the top no less. Sherlock guided John into the flat and set him down in his chair.

"Do you want any tea or coffee?"

John merely shook his head.

"Hungry?"

"No."

Sherlock watched him suspiciously. John didn't usually deny an offer of Sherlock being generous. A sick feeling bubbled in his stomach.

The army doctor sat in his chair like always, wore his favorite jumper and jeans like always. Except he wasn't reading the paper, there was a cast on his arm, burns on his face, and bandages around his eyes.

His head was bowed down like how it was when the paramedics were loading him on the gurney. It looked as if he were ashamed.

Sherlock wondered if he were to cry again. He hoped not, John was never supposed to cry. Not tears of sorrow at least.

"Sherlock, come here." He called.

Sherlock quickly came as ordered and knelt before his partner. He felt a bit like a puppy that was called by his owner.

"Can I see you?" John asked.

Sherlock became confused for a moment before remembering that blind people often feel a persons face in order to visualize them.

"Do you mean examine my face?"

"Yeah, that." John looked a bit bashful. He shouldn't feel embarrassed. They had been together for over a year after all.

"Of course."

John's hands first came in contact with Sherlock's hair. He massaged his skull a bit and ran his fingers through the dark curly locks. Sherlock made a pleased sigh. He really loved this.

His hands moved down over his ears and temporarily blocked off his hearing. Sherlock felt his thumbs trace the shell of his ear and then lightly pinch his earlobe with his thumb and forefinger. His hands then cupped Sherlock's face, fingers examining his jawline, then coming to meet each other at Sherlock's chin. John then felt his cheeks and spent a little extra time feeling the cheekbones he adored so much. He felt his nose and ran two fingers over the bridge. He touched the tip of his nose with his thumb and then moved on to his lips. John's own lips cracked open just a sliver when he moved his thumb across Sherlock's. This was another favorite of his. He placed one hand on Sherlock's forehead and searched for any wrinkles or worry lines that he could memorize. John grazed two fingers over his eyebrows and his own eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

"Do you trim your eyebrows?"

"Occasionally."

Finally he felt Sherlock's eyes and eyelashes.

"I wish…I could feel color. You really have the most spectacular eyes. God, I'm going to miss them."

Sherlock smiled and John felt it.

"You own are pretty brilliant as well. May I see them?"

John pulled back and frowned.

"I-I don't. I- Uhm.."

"Just for a moment John. I'm sure you are allowed to take of the bandages by now." He reached for the wrapping but once John felt his fingertips on his head he flinched.  
"Sher-Sherlock please! Don't touch it."

Sherlock gave him a quizzical look.

"Well why not?"

"I just, I can't right now. Later okay? You can take them off later."

"John that's ridiculous. It's not going to make a difference if I take them off now or later. You might as well let me-"

"NO!" John had pulled back completely. His knees were to his chest and his good arm was gripping tightly on the arm of the chair.

Sherlock was shocked.

"No, I mean. Just leave them alone."

"John…"

"Ah, sorry. I didn't mean to shout, but _please."_

"John."

"I just can't do it okay? I can't right now."

"John, it's okay to be afraid."

John's lip trembled and his hand began to shake.

"I can't do it."

"And that's okay." Sherlock pushed himself off the floor and put his hand over John's. "You just take your time."

"Sherlock…It's so dark. You don't even know. It's so bloody dark I can't bear it."

He laid a kiss on John's nose and whispered in his ear. "It's okay. I'm here."

"But you're _not. _That's the thing, you're not here. No one is here, I- I can't- I'm so _alone."_

Sherlock scowled. John wasn't alone. He was the complete opposite. He wanted to show John that he was indeed there. He would always be there. Always.

Sherlock took John's hands and placed them on both sides of his own face. John's inhaled sharply and he seemed to wince.

"Sherlock."

"I'm here."

John sighed and leaned closer to press their foreheads together. A tiny spark of electricity pulsed through his body when he was this close. When their minds were combined he would always feel a rush of energy in his veins. Their DNA would intertwine and become a single entity and they would fully connect. John closed his eyes from beneath the blindfold.

"I know."

* * *

One single entity. That's how it felt.

The duvet was tossed askew over the bed and only the white sheet seemed to remain on the mattress. Clothes were throw carelessly over the side of the bed leaving the two openly nude. They were on their knees, caressing one another and memorizing every detail of the other's body. John cupped Sherlock's face and laid hungry, possessive kisses all over his face. Sherlock had his arms wound around John's waist and held him firm to his own body. Tracing shapes and numbers over his lower back with his fingers.

John never took off his blindfold and his cast had to remain as well. Luckily it was fairly small and allowed John's fingers and thumb to move freely. Said fingers were now threaded in Sherlock's hair while his nose nuzzled his cheek.

It was then John noticed Sherlock's particular scent. He supposed he had always known it before but it was never this distinct.

He smelled of winter snow, tree sap, mint and vinegar, ash and fire smoke. Like a winter forest set to fire.

A oddly beautiful image, John thought. It depicted Sherlock Holmes well. Burning ice, peaceful chaos, brilliant moron, loving sociopath.

Deadly antidote.

He claimed said sociopath's lips and tasted him, documenting each and every flavor and storing it away in his mind. More mint, lemon and strawberry's, strange but delicious combinations. He must have been conducting a taste test between sour and sweet. Or perhaps he just drank some strawberry lemonade at the hospital. He also tasted of sweat, of heat and warmth. Fire.

"Mmph!" John couldn't get enough of it. In the lonely darkness he was bound to, he found himself growing cold and Sherlock seemed to be the only source of warmth.

Sherlock had fallen back at some point and John found himself pinning him against the bed.

His taste and scent were extremely addicting.

"J-John." Sherlock pushed the doctor away and John whimpered as his warmth vanished.

"S-sorry, just." He was breathing heavily. "John…I must remind you…I'm not immortal. Every now and then I need some oxygen too."

Oh. John didn't even notice he had been kissing him that long.

He let out a small laugh and smiled. "Heh, sorry."

"Oh no it's fine, just." More breathing. "Give me a minute…God you're fantastic."

John laughed a little more and Sherlock swore it was the most beautiful thing he'd heard all week.

Sherlock kissed him again and fell back into a dizzy bliss.

His phone buzzed.

"Leave it." John said breathlessly. He needed this.

"Sorry just," He kissed John again. "One moment."

He reached over and snatched the phone from the bedside table.

John heard him mutter a quite _"dammit"_

"What it is?"

"Serial murderer." He said, and John knew it was a lie. "I'm so sorry John, I must go." He shifted uncomfortably and moved John off of him as prudently as he could. Sherlock swung his legs off the bed and reached for his shirt.

"No no wait, Sherlock." John found himself reaching out for the warmth that had just left him. Blind attempts of trying to grasp it in his hands.

"My sincerest apologies John." He said as he fastened the belt on his trousers. "I will return before you even know it." He kissed John's temple.

"Please, they don't really need you do they? They're cops for god sake." He felt himself beginning to panic. Was he really begging?

"I'm afraid they do." Another kiss. "I'll tell Mrs. Hudson to make you some breakfast. Rest for now alright? I want those wounds healed before I return." He found himself winking even though he knew John wouldn't notice it.

"Sherlock wait-"

"Goodbye John." He heard him call before the door shut.

John sat alone in the bed, holding the sheet tightly in his fist, a pained frown on his face.

"Don't leave me."

He could already feel the chilled darkness beginning to engulf him. It was so very dark. So cold. So empty and so alone.

A shiver ran down John's spine and he clutched the sheets tighter.

It was coming.

John tried desperately to stop it. He tried as much as he could to think of something else but nothing seemed to out weigh the deep and dreadful abyss that waited for him. It began at the base of his spine, ever so slowly bleeding through his skin and melting into his body. A sharp gasp escaped John. It was so bloody cold. It was creeping in, consuming his finger tips and toes, then moving up to his wrists and sliding across his arms.

No No _NO!_

It was in his stomach now, the dark liquid that would drown him in a matter of minutes. It began to seep into his chest and drip into his heart.

_STOP!_

Make it _STOP!_

In his mind now, curdling down to the center of his brain, it would pour out his eyes and ears, drip from his mouth if he didn't stop it soon. John grabbed hold of his head desperately in a helpless attempt to keep it from exploding.

It HURTS!

He wasn't sure if the moist feeling under his bandages was blood, tears, or the black liquid. He grunted as it filled his heart to the brim and flooded his brain.

It was drowning him.

He tried to scream but nothing came out. It had drowned out his throat and lungs. He needed to stop this. He needed to find a cure, an antidote, _something_ to at least stall this.

Suddenly, as quick as it had started, the pain stopped. He could hear the sweet sound of music through the heavy beating of his heart. Sherlock's music. His violin.

Oh yes, that soothed the pain quite nicely. The darkness felt much lighter and then it began to vanish. His blood felt much fresher now. His heart could beat without struggling. His mind could work freely.

Yes this is much better.

The violin's light voice ran through his veins and exterminated the darkness from John's body. It served as a tiny flame but it's light served as a powerful antidote.

John sighed in relief and let himself become lost in the music. He fell back onto the bed and felt the music's warmth pulse through his body.

Of course…this was only a temporary fix. John knew the darkness would return and when it did he'd need to be able to fight it. He had no other choice.

But for now, he let the violin scare away his monsters and numb his pain.

"Sherlock, this is such a lovely piece." He said to himself. "You really should think about publishing some of this. No point of hiding all of your talent just for me, I'm honored anyway."

He was answered with just the voice of the violin.

"Yeah, I guess you're right about that one. They can't handle your genius." He snorted. Sherlock could be so egotistical. John couldn't help but grin at the giddy feeling that dwell in his stomach.

* * *

Sherlock stood outside the flat and stared at the text he had received. He scowled at it every time he read it over.

_Arson killer has 2 new victims. 354 Apodemus St. An american couple vacationing. No leads so far. __-GL_

He quickly typed in a response while he waved down a cab.

_He needed supplies in order to complete these bombs. Investigate explosive manufacturers, ask about a costumer with premature balding and stutter. Strawberry blond hair, pale skin. Obsessive compulsive. Lestrade you need to find him. -SH_

He shoved his phone in his pocket and stepped into the cab.

"354 Apodemus Street please."

His phone buzzed once again.

_Press has named him The Blind Bomber -GL_

Sherlock stared at the screen for a while, silently determining if he should throw the phone out the window.

The Blind Bomber? Really? Why the hell would they name him the _blind _bomber. He finally decided against tossing the phone and very angrily punched in a reply.

_Why -SH_

_Say it's because he doesn't care who he kills, he just kills. He murders "blindly" -GL_

Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes. This was ridiculous! Of all things to name the bastard, the press settles on _that. _Complete imbeciles! Don't they know that there are numbers of visually impaired individuals who could be triggered by that phrase. Why not something like I-blow-up-people-for-fun-because-I-have-cancer bomber. That would make more sense wouldn't it? Why _blind?_

Oh no this was not good. Not good at all.

_Make them change it -SH_

_I can't change the press. They've already published it. I'm sorry. -GL_

_Not fair -SH_

_I know -GL_


	5. Dereliction

_A/N: Sorry about the late update. Had some computer problems. Also procrastination._

* * *

**Fifth Chapter: Dereliction**

* * *

There wasn't much to distinguish from the newest crime scene, if you could actually call it a crime scene. Sherlock's least and most favorite thing about murders by bombs was that they left practically nothing to work with. It only left scraps and pieces all over the place. While they were fantastically messy, which should mean lots of evidence, it's practically impossible to distinguish the evidence from...everything else.

The victims were merely chunks of flesh, the murder weapon was in scraps too small to rebuild, there couldn't be any fingerprints at the crime scene because the bomb was triggered by a detonator.

John's bomb was triggered by a motion detector, but it exploded 30 seconds after. Curious...the unsub must have know that John would have trouble maneuvering over the trash bin. Or was he trying to stop Sherlock?

_"He doesn't care who he kills, he just kills"_

Of course. He was trying to harm Sherlock or John, or Sherlock and John. He didn't care which.

The bastard doesn't _care_. He just wants chaos.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted.

Sherlock snapped out of his daze and returned back to reality and back to the crime scene.

"Hm?" He took a moment to remember where he was.

"I said, you've got any ideas?"

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, silently analyzing Lestrade.

This case was stressing him. He was angry for what happened to John and he was prepared to demand for answers. There was a certain spark of wrath in his eyes that Sherlock had not ever seen before.

In a way, the bomb had hit Lestrade just as hard as it hit John. But not as hard as it had hit Sherlock.

"No."

Lestrade's face twisted in shock and anger.

"No? What the hell do you mean 'No?'"

"I don't have any ideas."

He made a sort of disbelieving laugh before turning to scowl again.

"_You_ always have ideas._ Always_! About _everything_! Just tell me where to find him and I'll find him."

"No."

"**Dammit** Sherlock! This isn't all about you! John is _my friend_, my dear friend. You don't get to keep these kind of secrets from me just because you hold a bigger part in his life. You don't get to save this son of a bitch for yourself-"

"It's my own fault!" He didn't realize he had shouted it until everyone on the scene was staring at him.

He bit his lip and tried desperately to calm his breathing. Like John had shown him, Inhale, Exhale, Inhale...

"It's my fault John is blind." He said. "I wasn't_ there,_ Lestrade. I have to always be there or else.." His brow furrowed and his hands clenched into fists at his side.

"Or else I'll loose him. I'm lucky enough to still have all of him but...a part of John was lost that night. I lost some of my John and it's my own fault." His voice broke and his teeth clenched. He didn't used to be like this. He was as numb as a rock. Now there are far too many emotions for him to bear. It was frightening.

A hand was on his shoulder then.

"Look here." Lestrade's voice softer but still stern. "Someone decided to hit you where it really hurts. That's no fault of yours. It's that bastard's fault and his fault alone. Not yours. I don't you want saying that this was your doing because I'll be damned if you're not John's fucking guardian angel. Hell, remember the first few months you two got together? You wouldn't let anyone touch him! You gave Anderson a bloody nose after he said something about the man being your 'pet'.

I know you Sherlock Holmes, more then you think, and I know you would first leap off a building if it meant protecting your John. So don't even fucking try to say this is your fault. I'm not going to hear it."

There were times were Sherlock really admired detective inspector Lestrade's both compassion and assertiveness. This was one of those times. Still, he was still clueless on how to respond to it.

"Yes..Um. Thank you...Lestrade." He spoke like he was a child who had just been scolded.

He grinned, satisfied he had left The Great Sherlock Holmes speechless.

'Yeah, don't mention it. Get back home now, a'right? Bet John's missing you."

Sherlock nodded, gave Lestrade one more shocked stare, and then walked off the crime scene.

_Coming home. Are you alright? -SH_

His nostrils flared and his cursed under his breath. What was he thinking texting John? It's obvious he wouldn't be able to read it. He waved a cab down and dialed their flat number while it was pulling up. It had been a while since he had actually called someone, not including the 911 call on the night of the accident of course. He hopped into the cab and listened to it ring and ring and ring until-

_"Hi, you've reached the residence of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. We're busy right now, so if you could please leave a message, we'll be sure to get back to-'_

_'Oh don't tell them that John. It's entirely probable that we'll ignore their call completely.'_

_'Sherlock, you really don't understand the concept of an answering machine do yo-'"_

BEEP

The detective grinned at their foolish greeting. They had never found to time to replace it with a proper message, but honestly, Sherlock preferred this one. It was nice to hear John's voice.

"John, pick up the phone. I'm coming home...Are you alright? Can you find your phone? If you can please do pick it up...John? John pick up the phone...please. I'll be home soon."

The fact that John didn't pick up the phone concerned Sherlock to no end. The cab seemed to be moving incredibly slow and he was sure they hit every single red light. Somehow it was Mycroft's fault.

Anxiously, he tapped his fingers on his knee and leaned against the window. Everything was moving too slowly. He wanted it to move faster. It _needed_ to go_ faster_.

"Could you drive _any_ slower? It is essential that I make it home as soon as possible. So _please,_ do speed up."

The driver simply grunted and remained the exact same speed that he was before. In fact, Sherlock was 87% sure he was driving even slower.

He called John again.

He got the answering machine again.  
"John, I'm almost home. This sodding cabbie is taking forever. My sincerest apologies for the delay. Did you eat what Mrs. Hudson brought you? I know she isn't the most spectacular cook but it would really please me if you ate something. The doctors said you must keep eating, even if the concussion makes you feel sick...John I'd really appreciate it if you picked up-"

The phone beeped and ended his message. He made a noise that was a cross between frustration and disappointment.

And he called John again.

"John you better be seriously injured or without hands! Pick. Up. The. Phone. You're making me ridiculously worried and it's rather unfair. Pick up the phone John. I'll be home any minute."

And again.

"John...please be alright."

He didn't call him again after that.

The cabbie peeked at him through the rear view mirror, a raised eyebrow.

"You're awfully worried about this bloke. Can't he take care of 'imself? Or is he one of those autistic ones."

Sherlock scoffed, "No, John's mind is perfectly normal."

"John, right. You said he's got a concussion?"

"Yes."

"Right, right...is it bad? He can still work right, yeah?"

"Yes. It's only a mild concussion. My real concern is that he will accidentally hurt himself in his blinded state."

"John's blind?"

"Yes. Since 3 days ago."

The cabbie was silent for a while before he said very quietly. "He's that Blind Bomber survivor, isn't he?" It wasn't a question, it was a statement meant for clarification.

"Yes." Sherlock's voice was calm and even, with a hint of sorrow in it. He wondered if this would be the first time he would refer to John as the "survivor".

The cabbie nodded. "Lucky man he is. That fucker doesn't even give a warning. My daughter heard about him on the telly. She's scared to sleep now. Can you believe that? She's only 8, she shouldn't be afraid of dying. No no, it's not fair at all."

_Not fair._

The cab pulled to a halt, finally, at Baker Street.

"'ere we are. Take care of your John yeah? I'll be praying that they catch this bastard. Cheers mate."

Sherlock nodded, a sincere smile played on his lips. "Bless you." He said as he payed the driver.

Sherlock trotted up the steps swiftly and stopped briefly once he reached the door to the flat. He was a bit anxious to finding out what hid behind the door. John did not answer his calls, not a single one. Of course, this wasn't the primary reason why he was worried, it was just a factor of his concern. John was definitely discontent with Sherlock leaving him this morning. Since the accident he had been easily disturbed by the slightest of things. He was a full time job now, not that Sherlock minded of course. It was just..._painful_ seeing John like this.

But it was even more painful not seeing John at all.

Sherlock turned the knob of the door and stepped inside. His eyes immediately found John, sitting in his chair as usual. Sherlock sighed, John was fine. At least, that's what he thought from his first look. He traveled over to his doctor and quickly noticed that something was very wrong. John's whole body was limp, he wore just his bath robe and a pair of boxers, the bandages that were once wrapped around his eyes were in his left hand.

Oh. This would be the first time John would fully experience the extent of his vision impairment. He might be in shock. Not good.

"John?"

No response. His eyes stared blankly at the wall occasionally blinking.

Sherlock approached and laid his hand over John's.

"John. Are you okay?"

Nothing. The lack of communication made Sherlock unusually tense. He became scared.

"John, if you can hear me, I need you to show me. Please give me some sort of indication that you can understand what I am saying. Please John."

All was quiet, and Sherlock began to shake, until-

"I never understand what you're saying half the time anyway." John muttered, showing off an amused smirk.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "Thank you." He said.

John nodded. "I'm fine, really I am. Just spaced for a bit."

He took the detective's hand in his own and pulled him down to sit in his lap.

"Didn't mean to scare you, sorry. I just...I thought..." He frowned and there was a deep melancholy look in his blind eyes. "I thought...maybe, if I take the bandages off...It might not be real. That I could, y'know..."

"You hoped if you removed what was blocking your vision you would be able to see again, despite what the doctor told you."

He nodded, a sad smile grew on his lips. "Heh, silly of me really. I'm a trained doctor and I know what 'no light reception' means. I_ know_ I won't ever see again. But still...it was nice to have that hope, even if it was for just a little while."

Sherlock kissed his cheek before wrapping his arms around his John. "As a man of science you must understand how difficult it is for me to admit this...but in my own experience I have learned: There is always hope."

John chuckled, "A bit sentimental don't you think, Mr. sociopath?"

"It's true." He knew John couldn't see the honesty in his eyes, but he hoped he could sense it somehow.

"But...don't tell me those things Sherlock." He said, seriously now. "I don't want to ruin myself believing in something that just won't happen."

The two didn't say anything else for a long while. They didn't really need to either. John listened to the sound of Sherlock's breathing and his heartbeat. Those sounds were much clearer now, and that was something he was pleased with. Those sounds are what proved that Sherlock was indeed alive and with him, sitting in his lap, mind working at the speed of light. Those noises are what kept John sane.

He hoped they would be enough for when The Dark returned for him.


	6. Rupture

_A/N: In case you did not see the update on Tumblr: Eclipsed will now be updated every other Thursday._

* * *

**6th Chapter: R****upture**

* * *

A month passed. Things were slower now, more intimate. Every morning Sherlock would dress John. John had tried several times to dress himself but somehow he'd always end up putting his trousers on backwards or buttoning his shirt wrong or mistaking a jumper for sweatpants. He didn't mind it so much anymore when Sherlock took care of him. Being helped _out_ of clothes were a thousand times more embarrassing then being helped into them anyway. But no matter what, it was always a sad routine. Sad in every way possible. It was depressing and pathetic and just_ sad_. Sherlock would try to make the situation a bit better by laying kisses on every part of John before he covers him with clothes, which was nice. It was intimate, but John could always feel the frown on his lips. It was a painful experience for both parties. It wasn't just the dressing though, it was the feeding and the walking and it was how everything John did had to be done with the assistance of Sherlock.

It made him think of Algernon and he really didn't want to think of Algernon right then.

Anyway, it wasn't like he could just tell him to piss off. Because...

1. That wasn't fair at all, Sherlock was just taking care of John like a good partner should.

2. John wouldn't accomplished anything without Sherlock.

He was completely and utterly helpless. And it was killing him.

Sherlock had taken a sort of 'leave of absence' from the Yard. Of course he still phoned Lestrade quite often, sometimes talking for hours about updates on the case. 'The Case' being the murders of the Blind Bomber. John's case. Sherlock showed no interest in any other cases as of recent.

John first thought it strange, unhealthy even that the man wouldn't go off dodging bullets and solving mysteries like always. That's what Sherlock did. That's what he'd always done. Perhaps this is him showing John that work isn't his main priority. The thought made John feel both warm and sick inside. Sherlock should never sacrifice anything for John, especially doing what he loves.

The violin made a sound of disapproval as if to say 'He loves _you_, you dolt.'

That was another thing. The music of Sherlock's violin rarely left John's head. It wasn't always music. Sometimes it would just play a note of two if the room was too quiet. Sometimes it would screech and scream if John were to stub his toe against the table or drink vinegar that he thought was water. It was comforting, like a little voice of Sherlock except it never got annoying or aloof. It was nice, and it would fend off The Dark when Sherlock was busy or on a phone call.

The violin kept him safe.

"John, what do you want for breakfast?"

The violent screeched and John felt a unpleasant surge drift up his spine. Sherlock...asking what he should make John for breakfast. It was far too surreal. The whole room suddenly felt unnatural and just _wrong. _That's when John realized that he didn't want this. He didn't want this at all! He didn't want Sherlock making him breakfast and dressing him in the morning and he didn't want to depend on a cane in order to move about his own bloody flat! He wanted to run and fire his gun and fight off criminals and get punched in the face, and hell, he even wanted to be _kidnapped_! He just needed to be free again, like how he was before. But this...this wasn't freedom. Sitting in the flat and being taken care of like he was some senile old man. This isn't what he wanted at all.

"John? I asked you a question." Sherlock said and John raised from his chair.

"I'm going out." He said grimly.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then-

"Alright, let me grab my coat."

"No."

Sherlock shot him a glare that he knew John couldn't see. "It's cold out. I'm taking my coat."

"No Sherlock." John said again. "I mean you're not coming."

He scoffed, "That's silly John. Of course I am. Now come on," He laid John's coat over his shoulders, intending to dress him, and John snapped.

"**_Don't_!** Don't fucking touch me! Stop it! I don't want_ this_. Just **leave me alone**!"

Sherlock went silent and the room went thick with tension. Not even the violin played a note. John couldn't see what Sherlock looked like, he couldn't diagnose his facial expression or body language. He could only wait for an auditory response. He waited for the yelling, the fiery retort of how everything John was saying was illogical. He waited to hear Sherlock tell him off with the biggest words and best synonyms for 'idiot'. John waited for the fight to begin. They had fights before, this would be no different, except this time _John_ was the one who initiated it. And when he didn't hear it soon enough, he sensed something is wrong. His anger faded and he began to apologize.

"God, look Sherlock, I'm-"

"No." His voice was dangerously stern. No? That hadn't happened before. "No, I get it John. I'm not an idiot, I get it. You don't want this. I can understand that."

John sighed and rubbed his temple. He really didn't want to do this anymore.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean-"

"Oh don't even try to fool yourself John. I _get it_ now. I may have not seen it before but I assure you I do now."

It sounded like he was speaking through gritted teeth.

"Don't you dare apologize, it was my fault after all. Why would I do such a foolish thing as to take care of you? Why the hell would I do that? What do you think _John_? Why would a selfish bastard, with a hole where his heart should be, dress you, feed you, bathe you... **Why would I do that John?! **Perhaps it's because _I love you_?! Oh but_ that_ is the real mistake I've made." He was shouting now. Face to face with John, he spat out his venom words and he hoped they'd sting.

The violin played frantically, it's song was loud and fast. The instrument worked desperately to keep up with Sherlock's words, occasionally playing notes that seemed...out of place.

"That is what started this whole mess now isn't it?_ LOVE?!_** HA!** If I had never made an effort to keep you close, then you'd be out of the flat in less then a week. So tell me John, what in the hell influenced me to make such a mistake as to falling in love with you? Perhaps it was my own personal desire to feel a consistent presence with me. Perhaps I had grown tired of being so bloody alone all of my life. What do you think John? That is, if you** think** at all!"

"Sherlock you're out of-"

"**Out of control?! **Yes! That's me! I'm the one out of control. It's my fault John! It's my own sodding fault that you got your vision blown from your skull. It's my fault that you can't even function anymore without the help of a care taker. It's my fault John! It's all**_ me_**."

John's anger flared up like fire on gasoline.

The violin was getting louder, more wrong notes.

"**FINE!**" He shouted right back. "Fine, I've been irrational and I'm sorry. But you don't _know_ Sherlock. You_** don't get it**_. You think you do. But you **don't. **You don't know what it's like-"

"I don't? Then please John, enlighten me on how everything I say and do is **WRONG.** Is it because I'm the healthy one? Because_ I_ can see,_ I'm_ the one at fault here. Invite me to your pity party John! Do it! Allow me to remind you that you are not the only one suffering here. It's been hell for all of us! I haven't have a case for weeks. Weeks! I'm busy playing nanny for you so you don't soil your own pants while I'm gone."

"Oh that's good. Make yourself the victim, that's real good. I didn't fucking ask you to stay home. You can leave whenever you want, I'll be fine!"

"But you won't will you? No, last time I left you alone you went into shock."

The violin wasn't even playing a song anymore. It was all just chaotic screeching and an unorganized playing of notes.

"I told you I was fine!"

"But you weren't! I don't understand how you expect me be to be ok with sitting around all day with someone so...so..."

"**SAY IT!** Fucking say it. I want to hear it."

"Incompetent, incapable, inept! Is that what you want to hear? It's all true John, you can't do anything without me and it's exhausting."

The violin died, and in that moment John thought of Algernon, but he really didn't want to.

Everything was spinning out of control. He needed it to stop, before The Dark came to make it worse. Sherlock wouldn't back down now. He would keep screaming until his words were imprinted into John's brain. So that meant there was one thing to do:

"I'm done." He said. His body still buzzed with anger but his words tumbled lazily from his lips like he was half asleep. Perhaps he was on the verge of collapsing due to stress. His hand snatched the white cane that leaned against the door frame, still untouched since the hospital visit.

Sherlock watched him, a furious glare in his eye. He didn't speak again, he didn't have to. He got a last glimpse of the doctor's face before the door slammed shut. His eyes were dark, tired, helpless. In that last glimpse, Sherlock saw that John had given up.

This made him unbearably angry.

Sherlock, ears ringing and eyes wet with anger, grabbed the nearest object, a glass bowl, and flung it across the room. The crack and shatter of noise brought a nearly soothing sense to his mind. Watching the pieces explode against the flat's wall was a pleasurably sight. He snatched up a plate, and tossed that too. He grabbed John's mug, it smashed against the wall. A beaker, shattered when it hit the door's frame. None of it was enough. He needed more. Sherlock fumbled around the flat for something bigger, something that would break into more pieces. Something to soothe this fit of rage. He made it to the kitchen, threw open drawers and cabinets, frantically looking for something he didn't even know if existed. Then he saw it.

An anniversary gift from John. An exquisite magnifying glass made of gold and a handle of a deep rosewood. On the rimming there was an engraving.

_Forever yours -JW_

The lens cracked, then shattered when it hit the floor.

Sherlock descended to his knees, his tantrum cooled and then vanished. His rage turned to a very strong, very unsettling, sadness that Sherlock was not used to feeling. It scared him. Once again Sherlock did not realize he was crying until he saw tears in his lap. He had not cried since the hospital visit. He had not felt this degree of empty desperation since he found John not breathing. He defiantly hadn't felt this afraid since he realized he was in love with John.

And by god he felt so drained. He was done, for now at least. Sherlock lied down on his side, ignoring the sting of the glass shards still on the floor. He didn't really feel them anyway. He curled up in an almost fetal position on the kitchen room floor. At this moment he might have thought he was a child again. He remembered doing this when he was young. Lying on the floor, curled up in a ball, the numb feeling. He remembered Mycroft would find him and try to talk him out of this state, but his words never seemed to get through. Now the world was becoming fuzzy, and Sherlock knew what came next.

Mental shutdown.

All went black.

* * *

Across the room, in Sherlock's coat pocket, buzzed his phone.

_Trouble in Paradise? -M_


	7. Wrong

_A/N: I apologies for the long wait on this one. Hopfully that won't happen again. I want to thank you all for such the lovely reviews! They make my day! You are all too kind._

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**7th Chapter: Wrong**

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_John had never felt anything while looking at dead animals. Hell, he felt nothing while looking at dead humans. If he did not have an emotional connection to the one deceased, then he simply saw them as a victim, _not_ a person. His inability to feel for the dead was defiantly not as bad as Sherlock's of course. He did not shout with joy when there was a confirmed serial murder, obviously. He did not grin at corpses, but he rarely felt much for them. Of course they were people, dead people, but that seemed to be all they were. John Watson did not cringe or become nauseous even with the most bloody crime scenes. He was a soldier after all, he'd seen it all before._

_So why...why then was he overwhelmed with emotions when he came across...when he saw...It didn't make sense._

_John Watson did not grin at corpses._

He had been outside of the flat a few times since the accident. Sherlock had helped him to use the cane, it was remarkably simple once he'd gotten the hang of it. But still, John had never ventured out of the flat without someone beside him. He would have been nervous or scared if he wasn't so fueled with rage. He tapped the cane around in front of him, identifying where the sidewalk met the curb or where there would be a trash bin. He would hear people coming, and would be sure to move out of their way. Even if he couldn't see them, he could _feel _they're stares. They pitied him. He knew it. And by god he hated it.

_"Oh look at that poor bloke with no eyes. He's obviously got no clue where he's going. He can't do anything at all on his own now can he?"_

_"Pathetic really. He used to be a soldier. He could kill men with his bare hands, now he struggles just to dress himself."_

_"He completely useless now. Why would the genius bother keeping him around then? If you ask me, I'd just dispose of him as quickly as possible. Can have and weak links on the Great Sherlock Holmes' chain. Just let him _die_._

The voices continued like this. All judging him, all getting more and more aggressive as time went on. John had tried to drown them out with the violin, but it would not play. No matter how hard he tried, John could not remember it's song. All he could think about were the voices and Algernon.

_He often kept her in his palm while he sipped his tea. The mouse would usually curl up in the tiniest ball with her pink tail twisted around his thumb. Her rapid heartbeat thumped in her little body as she'd rest in the center of his palm. John never liked pets too much, but Algernon was good company. He would occasional speak to her when Sherlock wasn't home, or when he was._

_"See that Algernon? That is the rare consulting Detective in his state of sulk. It's a fascinating thing to see, really. Maybe if we're real quiet, we can hear his brain struggling to cope with humanity's stupidity."_

_She could never look John directly in the eye, but if he got up really close to her she'd lick his nose. She really was just like the other mice. Sherlock had said that most mice have poor vision anyway. They rely mostly on their sense of smell and hearing. Still, John kept Algernon away from Sherlock's other lab mice. She was very rarely used in any experiments._

_John didn't have Algernon for too long. Only about a month before-_

A heavy structure stopped John in his tracks. He'd run into someone, someone much larger and heavier than himself. He'd almost been knocked over if he hadn't caught his balance.

"So sorry." He tried his best to seem apologetic.

There came no response.

He internally shrugged and attempted to carry on his merry way when a hand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder.

_It was his own fault really. Why would he expect any different from animals? Perhaps it was because Sherlock had assured him they held so much similar genetic makeup as humans did. But really, would John expect much better behavior from humans? No. It was all completely his own fault. In August, John had decided to place Algernon in the bin with the other mice._

_"She could socialize a bit." He'd thought. What an idiot he was. He should have bloody well known._

"We don't fuck with the crippled ones much, but today we're a little desperate. Life's a bitch y'know?" The first once said into his ear. John smelt liquor on his breath and a cold night breeze made him suddenly shake. What time was it? How long had he been walking?

"We'll make it real easy, friend. Wallet, watch, and coat. Then you can be on your way."

_Coat?_

"Are you homeless?" John found himself saying. Sherlock couldn't have possibly sent the homeless network to come and get him. And if he did, they certainly wouldn't be robbing him.

"I don' believe that's any of your business. Now I'm not going to say it again. Wallet, watch, _and coat_."

John huffed. He may be blind, but he wasn't about to be scared into stripping off his own coat for these low lives. He _really_ should have known better.

"And if I say no?"

It was silent for a moment, then three laughs erupted into the night._ Three_ of them. The one behind him was leveled with his mouth to John's ear. That one was taller then. The one in front of him was too, also heavier. The other he didn't know. Either way, it didn't look well.

_John returned to the bin later to fine what remained of Algernon and the 5 white mice that surrounded her. Fur painted in a brighter color._

Despite that, John was military trained, and fucking furious. He had a bit of an advantage of his own.

His first attack was an elbow blow to the throat of the one behind him. He wasn't laughing after that. Foot steps approached him, heavy ones. This one most likely had a hard head as well. It'd do no good to go for the face. Groin it was. A sharp kick to the stones followed by a hiss of pain. John momentarily grinned to himself before he was punched square in the jaw by number three. The blow disoriented him, as most facial blows do, and suddenly there were hands pushing him to the ground. They were coming at all directions, John couldn't pinpoint where to hit. His back hit the concrete with a loud thud and there were feet kicking him, stomping on him from above.

_John told himself it was because rodents were territorial creatures, it was because they hadn't been fed, Sherlock had given them drugs. But some awful thought in the back of his mind screamed that it was because she was _defective._ He'd heard of mother animals killing off their young after finding a disability in them. They would abandon them, murder them, devour them. Mothers would devour their own children all because they were born _wrong_._

Another hard kick fractured two of his ribs. His humerus must've shattered by then. And here came the concussion. John's face was gushing blood by then. From his nose, his mouth, his eyes even. God damn his fucking useless eyes.

They were shouting at him now.

"Stay down, you're better off here on the pavement then anywhere else."

"Fucker bruised my balls, I'll bruise his face!"

"Tell us when you see red, faggot!"

_They were eating her. The one Sherlock called Ulysses was gnawing on a hind leg, two of the rodents were hissing and shrieking as they fought over her liver, another two were practically buried in her abdomen, scarfing down her insides like their life depended on it. Algernon's body was torn into pieces. Her dismembered head lied untouched by the other mice. Her eyes still as dark as ever, he mouth open agape._

They took everything. From his wallet, to his shirt, to his watch. Just about everything but his pants. Then they left him to die on the bloodied pavement. He stopped feeling the beatings about 3 minutes in. He could faintly feel his skin buzzing but there was no real pain. His left eye felt as though it was probably swollen shut. It made no difference anyway. His eyes were useless, John considered getting the bloody things removed. Just decorations for show , afterall. He did not struggle or fight when The Dark came to take him. He had nothing to fight for this time. All was lost, from Sherlock to his dignity, all of it was gone. The Dark applied immense pressure to his back, it felt as though he was supporting two bookshelves on his shoulders. It seeped into his wounds and filled the scars and fractures with it's essence. John felt it in his chest cavity, a heavy weight that itched to burst out through his skin. It coiled around his heart before attempting to drown it under the weight of The Dark. John felt an ache somewhere in his mind right before he passed out.

* * *

Spit shined shoes clacked against the pavement. They gradually got closer to John before stopping right before the blood pool. A well manicured hand reached into an inner pocket of the Westwood suite and retrieved a single white hankercheif. The other hand gently lifted John's head from the ground and cradled it in it's arm. The blood, sweat, and dirt was wiped away with the white hankercheif. A satisfied grin danced on lips as John's face was revealed underneath it all.

"Hmmmm, John Watson." A finger pushed John's eyelid up to take a peek. "Blind as a bat."

John's head was placed back on the pavement and a hand patted his head. The now stained hankercheif was left over his eyes.

"Send this to Sherlock will you?" A light kiss on John's brow, then the sound of the clacking shoes walking away.


End file.
